Comrade Sensei
by mineiswithyours
Summary: A serial groper accidentally catches the eye of an amateur stalker. The two of them share a Moment, which spirals quickly out of control in a bizarre affair of modern artificial love, harrassment, and comraderie. M, AU, AH, Destiel, sex, het, homo.


**Comrade-sensei**

_**Chikan**  
>"Chikan" is a Japanese word for someone who gropes unsuspecting women on a train or other form of public transportation<em>, _relying on anonymity and the natural instinct of Japanese women to keep quiet, to get away with sexual harassment. _

_…A chikan 'sensei' is someone who has groped over 100 different women on public transport, and come up with a new technique…whether for groping, or for not getting caught…_

_**Stalker  
><strong>Someone that is obsessed with a person. Watching and noticing every part and piece on their body, their mind, their _feelings_. A person that craves attention so they _follow. _A person with great interest and finds everything about _you remarkable**_._**

_—-_

_Clitter-clatter-bang-kang-chung.  
><em>

The train is going along, along along along. The wheels merrily clatter along, and someone is whistling. iPods playing little tinny songs with driving basses, clashing tempos and time and pitch and dubsteps made halfsteps made full steps too cramped and confined by the limited space of the carraige.

White wire dangles beneath her jacket, malleable but stiff, coiled earbuds in her ears. Following the line and hollow of her throat, sliding underneath curls of dark hair, d-dark dyed-brownblack hair that one could run rough fingers over and under and through and tuck back behind her ear. Sneak glances, hot glances that make her shift even though her eyes are closed. Eyelashes long and breath fluttering out between full lips, red lips the flavor of cherry gloss, the colour of it rich and woman. Perfect target. Her eyelashes are long, too long as her eyes are closed, teeth capturing lip, hands disappearing into her jacket's pockets. Her head is bobbing to her music. Moving just far enough to make shivers run down slouched spines, enough to make breaths catch in masculine throats. She shivers. Perhaps she can feel a gaze on her, hot. Hot, heavy, panting, wanting.

_Bang-ching-clutter-clatter-bing-clung-chang._

Her tongue flicks out to lick her lips. Her lips are dry. They should be wetted. Her hand twists up to curl a lock of her hair around it. The underground lights flash past and illuminate her in brief moments. She knocks around and her hip bumps into a man in a bright-blue beanie and a leather coat. She apologizes. His gaze is hot on her, hot and sexual and thick, but it passes quickly. She's used to it. A tingle travels down her spine. Someone's watching her - but someone's always watching her. His eyes are cold and dispassionate. She knows, because he's following her, always following her. She's not used to the other feeling, the feeling that someone's passion is riding on her. Someone's using her as a fantasy doll, right here, right now, and his sex dreams are projected onto her body as a projector might caress its screen.

It's thickest around her bare thighs - which are long, revealed under the gray layered skirt, knee-high. Long, long, reaching to the heavens, long, wrapped around his waist, his knees, his head. She shivers and pushes her knees together. Blinks eyeliner-eyes. Blinks. Blinks.

She turns around to face the window, the black-black window, and.

His eyes are on her thighs, revealed by the skirt riding up, and his fingers twitch. He makes the chance open, by sidling ever so closer to her from out of her range of view, letting every bump-clatter of the train take him off balance. Off-balance off balance, all in the same direction. He bumps into people and apologizes and no one gives a damn that he's getting closer to her, getting closer to her. He's a bit tall, this man, and rugged and good-looking, but everyone in this city is one way or the other good-looking, whether it's natural or they've gone under the knife. And if they're not good looking they're likely to go under the knife anyway - just a different knife. It's the way the city works.

_Bung-bing-cutta-calla-calla-cling-clang._

_His _eyes are on her ass. He knows there's a birthmark there (heart-shaped). He knows exactly her three sizes, knows what music she likes (Stornaway) (The Smiths) (Soundtracks), what art she likes (Monet), why she's attracted to girls and guys (childhood experiment). She hasn't met him, only knows him through a friend of a friend, but she is interesting to watch. She has led a life. A life so different from his own that he is intrigued by it. So intrigued by it that he wants. To know her. And so he follows her.

She shifts and she closes her legs and sits down on a recently vacated seat and closes her eyes. Opens them at the next station and gives her seat up to an old lady with too many bags for a normal shopping trip. It's the bucket list, the woman confesses, smiles.

He's close to her now.

His eyes flick away from her thighs when she looks over, disturbed. His gaze falls on _him._

_hey._

They're both watching her, he realizes. His eyes are on her thighs but _his _eyes are on her ass, and the direction of their gaze is shifting, awkward, uncomfortable, but keeping quiet. Exactly his kind of woman.

He looks up. _He _is looking up. They meet gaze. They lock gaze. Lose each other. Lock gaze again. Again. Somehow - _he _looks androgynous, mis-race-cast, like he's every kind of race in the world, and he doesn't - he's a white-boy American, just next-door-neighbour-boy kind, innocent face, ruthless, cut off from the everyday world. And somehow, they're comrades.

Brothers.

_perverted._

_klatter-clit-clang-butter-bang-bang-chunk.  
><em>

His smile quirks up. He sidles closer to the girl. Watches _his _eyes burn with anger, stolen _mine mine mine_. He slides a finger down. Slides a finger up. Rubs her. She jumps and quickly he turns away. The train bumps. She's wet before his hand leaves her the second time.

She muffles a mewl.

When he looks up, _his _eyes are on him. Ready to send him back down to hell, one hand dragging him there. But then, they are both already in hell, aren't they.

Perfect twisted desires.

Touch, he mouths at the bewildered _him_, **_touch_**. Don't_ watch._

The _man_ swallows, all innocent and unshaved-rugged, and his eyes narrow. Run a circuit between her pussy lips, slipping into her, then out and up past her ass, and then the train bumps and he sidles the opposite way, off-balance off balance.  
><em><br>He's _disturbed. He gets off the train at the same station she gets off, follows her past the busy crowds outside Macy's, gets on the same bus back to her neighborhood. Follows her until she bundles herself up in four layers of clothing and huddles on her bed, staring with unseeing eyes at the wall. It's the hottest part of summer. _he _takes the usual photo. She is interesting.

Their dance of meeting and locking eyes, losing and locking and losing again, and how in the end he looked like he was teaching _him_ how to do what he did - it was almost Graceful with a capital G.

Castiel wants to stalk him now. Find out why he's so technical. How he did what he did. Ingenious.

Dean goes home. He limits himself to one a day. And it was such an interesting day, other than keeping his hand in. He met a _man_ who was singularly obsessive, but clearly amateurish. Somehow, there's an innocence in the _man_'s eyes he wants to nurture…then corrupt…then take.


End file.
